Page 67 of Center Ice
“Holy shit,” Jules laughs as she watches me. “Thisis what happens when you think about it? Must have been some damn good sex.”
“You have no idea,” I say, and then when I see the look that flashes across her face, I instantly regret it.
“Truth.”
I didn’t mean it literally, but that’s how she took it.
“Jules…” I say, starting to apologize, but she raises her hand to cut me off.
“Time to say goodnight to your mom, Graham!” she all but yells, as I give her my most apologetic look.
Graham jumps off the couch and comes running into the kitchen to give me hugs and kisses goodnight. As he does any night I go out, he makes me promise that I’ll come give him more kisses when I get home—which I always do, and he always sleeps through.
“I won’t be out late,” I tell Jules when Graham heads back to the couch to finish his show. She nods in response, but she’s doing that thing she sometimes does where she gets quiet and withdrawn. I can tell by the way she’s tugging on the gold disk of her necklace and staring blankly out the window into the darkness that she isn’t ready to talk. It’s so opposite of her normal hold-nothing-back personality that it used to scare me when she got like this, but eventually I accepted that this is how she deals with her feelings. There’s no point in pushing her when she’s like this. I’ll have to wait for her to be ready to talk.
“Oh good, you’re still alive.” Danika’s voice cuts through the music that’s pumping throughout the studio, and I have to scan the dark space lit only by purple spotlights to find her. She’s at the mobile cart that contains the sound system near the far wall.
“Yep, just barely survived,” I call out. I head toward the long wall at the back of the room where we keep our bags and drop to the floor to remove my shoes and street clothes. I leave my sweatpants on, as I’ll want them while we warm up, but I toss my sneakers and sweatshirt into my bag. And then Danika’s platform boots appear right next to me, like they did last week when I’d crumpled to the floor. I’m still laughing at how I was half-way dying on the floor at her feet and she still told me, “this ain’t no sleepover.”
“I kept searching the obituaries, but your name wasn’t there, so I figured you were okay,” she says.
My laughter escapes so fast it comes out more like a cough. “Thank you for your concern.”
“You recovered enough for this?” she asks.
I stand, and even if she wasn’t wearing 7-inch platform boots, I’d still be looking up at her. “I think so.”
“Good, because if whatever you had last week didn’t kill you, tonight’s workout probably will.”
I tilt my chin up, acknowledging the challenge. “Looking forward to it.”
And I am, because I am finally feeling recovered enough from my illness to do this. And even when it kicks my ass, pole dancing still makes me feel strong and badass like nothing else can. A few months ago when I started, I could barely hold myselfup on the bar. Now I can do some impressive stuff, even if it does come with some bumps and bruises.
So when Danika puts her headset on, changes the music to something slower, and starts calling out directions, I approach the pole eagerly. I need to channel my inner-badass so I can deal with the complicated emotions I’m having about Drew and our relationship.
An hour later, I’m regretting all my life choices, but most especially whatever stupid bravado led me to think I could do this. Danika wasn’t kidding about this workout being a killer. Tomorrow, the inside of my right thigh is going to be covered in bruises to match the ones already springing up on my left forearm from where it connected with the pole when my hand missed it. But you know what? I still did it—even though it was hard and, at times, painful. And that’s exactly why I leave every week feeling so good about myself, knowing that I can overcome difficulty and pain and still come out on top.
“Good work today, ladies,” Danika says. “And I expect you to practice at home before next week, because if you thought this was hard, you better prepare yourselves for seven days from now. It’ll be easier if you practice what we learned today.”
I groan internally, because there’s no way I can practice at home unless I get a pole, and no way I could hide that from Jules. I’ve thought about installing one of the temporary ones in the basement playroom and claiming that it’s a climbing pole for Graham, but I feel like she’d see right through that or catch me practicing on it.
I don’t know what it is that prevents me from telling her about these classes—we really do tell each other everything—but for reasons I can’t quite explain, this is something that I want to keep to myself.
Maybe I’m just waiting until I’m really good at it before I share, or maybe it’s because I’m still buying into the stigma thatpole dancing is just for strippers and, by my very nature, I’m a good girl who never does anything risqué. Well, except for the phone sex the other night, and actual sex in my office yesterday. But as long as I’m not around Drew, I’m the queen of good decisions.
I’m still pondering whether I should just break down and tell Jules about the class so that I can actually practice at home, when I walk out of the studio and am hit full-force by the chilly night air. The middle of October has brought unseasonably cold nighttime temperatures, and I rush toward the small parking lot two buildings down. I’m not paying attention to anyone around me, so I almost don’t notice my name being called. It probably wouldn’t have even registered if that same voice hadn’t been saying my name, along with a lot of other nonsensical things, like how he couldn’t live without me while he climaxed inside me yesterday.
I stop, my whole body going rigid, as I stand rooted on the sidewalk.Shit.As much as I’m conflicted about our situation, I crave Drew in a way I never have anyone else. I want to see him. I want him near me. But not here. Not steps from the dance studio with its bright neon sign.
I hear his soft footfalls behind me and am not surprised at all when his large hand clasps my shoulder. I want to melt right back into him, but my body seems to have a case of rigor mortis from the shock. What are the chances that he’d happen to be here, on the same city block, the minute I’m walking out of my class?
“Hey, where are you rushing off to?” he asks as he turns me to face him.
“I have to get home to Graham. Jules is watching him for me while I…run errands.” I pause just long enough before saying “run errands” that I know it sounds like I was thinking something up.
Drew’s eyes slide down my body, and my skin reacts as if he’s sliding his hands along every curve, goosebumps following the path of his gaze as he takes in my sweats and sweatshirt, then my high-top sneakers. His eyes track right back up to my face, no doubt noticing how sweaty I am, my hair slicked back into a now-damp ponytail. “Errands, huh?”
“Yep.” I use my elbow to push my bag behind my back, as if he won’t notice the wide canvas straps over my shoulder.
